


Divine Invention

by residentdm



Series: And Now I'd Like to Take a Bow [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: But Only a Little Bit - Freeform, History of Peros, Minor Character Death, War, and the rest of the universe I guess, paladins and clerics origin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdm/pseuds/residentdm
Summary: Istus, goddess of fate, meets the gods. They're not what she's expecting.
Series: And Now I'd Like to Take a Bow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798657
Kudos: 1





	1. Everything and All There Is

**Author's Note:**

> finally, my 100+ slide powerpoint on all the gods becomes useful.

Coming into existence as a god is much like waking up as a mortal. It takes some time to realize that you are awake, for the flood of conscious thought to crash upon you; for eternity, you float in a place between consciousness and rest. So too, the gods.

When the goddess known as Istus woke up, she already knew the path ahead. She recognized the blanche temple as her domain, the thousands of strings as her purpose—her eternity ahead as the sole goddess of fate. She wasted no time reveling in life nor seeking answers for her existence; she simply took her place before the altar and began to weave destiny itself.

The first god she met came soon after. “Someone new!” he crowed, inspecting her work. He was in the form of a great golden dragon, whilst Istus was nothing and everything at all—why would she require a mortal form? But the god seemed to revel in it, snaking about the room. “Ah, the strings of fate: I was wondering when a god would appear to watch over them. And what is your name?”

“Istus, I believe,” the goddess said. That was the name that the dragons had given her. For the first time, she wondered: which came first, herself or the dragons’ belief?

“Istus,” repeated the god. “What a nice name. And do you know who I am?”

Istus thought for a long moment. She turned her attention back to the strings. “You are Ezerath, the creator of this universe.”

Ezerath beamed, literally lighting up the room. “I’m glad you know! I was worried you would—”

He paused, and Istus noticed. “I would what?”

“Nevermind,” said Ezerath. “It is none of your concern.”

There was something strange about Ezerath, Istus decided, long after he had left. But he seemed genuine enough. Perhaps all the other gods were like that.

\----

Io seemed to prove that.

The first god of the draconics did not enter Istus’ temple; instead, they cast a shadow down upon it, resting on its roof. Istus looked up to the great glass window hanging above her work and saw a beady, resplendent eye staring back at her. She waited for them to introduce themself, and they waited as well, and thus the two of them waited for quite a while until Istus said: “Who are you?”

“THE TENFOLD DRAGON,” said Io at the top of their celestial lungs, “IO, THE FIRST OF ALL THERE IS.”

Istus stared. “Of everything?”

Io stared back. “NOT EVERYTHING.”

A pause. “But you said all there is.”

The very temple around her began to shake; Istus realized it was the result of a deep growl emanating from the other god. “I AM THE FIRST OF ALL THERE IS. THE DRAGONS. THEIR HOME. THEIR TOOLS. THE GODS.”

“And of Ezerath?”

The shaking of the temple abruptly cut off. “NOT...EZERATH. NOR LAOLUS OR VERAVOLS—THE HIGH GODS WERE THE START. I AM THE FIRST.”

Istus shrugged incorporeally. “I suppose that makes sense.”

That seemed to satisfy Io, for they stayed silent another moment. Then they said: “MANY OF THE OTHER GODS HAVE TAKEN A CORPOREAL FORM. I FIND IT HUMILIATING; I SEE YOU DO AS WELL.”

Istus hummed. “I don’t find it humiliating. I simply don’t see the point.”

“MORTALS WILL WANT TO TALK TO YOU. THEY WILL COWER AT YOUR TRUE FORM. I HAVE CHOSEN A MESSENGER TO SPEAK FOR ME, TO BEAR THE HUMILIATION.”

Istus thought. “I don’t need all that. Why would I need to talk to mortals?” She gazed into the strings of fate. “I know them all already; their lives, their deeds, their deaths. I give them their just fates; I will give them nothing more.”

Perhaps Io left at that very moment; perhaps they stayed for eons longer. But they said nothing else and so Istus was left alone, contemplating fate.

\----

Slowly, Istus came to know the rest of the draconic gods. Hlal, Io’s messenger, was entertaining, although he seemed to come to the hasty assumption that Istus did not approve of his form of entertainment. It wasn’t that she didn’t approve; he just always appeared at...the wrong times. So Hlal stopped coming by, which was fine; Io tended to deliver their messages to the goddess of fate themself.

She found Lendys, god of justice, to be civil enough, although she quickly grew bored of his unending rants on ‘true’ justice. Astilabor, goddess of wealth, and Kereska, goddess of magic, were much the same; Istus came to find that the gods, much like their draconic worshippers, loved to talk. 

She found some peace with Bahamut, the first once-mortal god. He was fascinating: for once, their fate did not play out. He became divine, untouched by destiny—or so Istus thought. They still died by his sister’s hands, and when Istus went again to comb through the strings she found their own life played out there, cut off. How terrible, she thought at the time, that even the gods have endings prewritten.

A goddess of mercy formed to take Bahamut’s place—formed, not risen. She was never mortal, and she never attempted to meet Istus, and so the goddess of fate never attempted to meet her. In fact, Istus never left her temple; besides the stray message from Io and the wanderings of Ezerath, Istus kept her distance from all the gods. She knew it would be eons and eons before they would die—but they would. Even Istus found her own fate, tangled amongst the rest, cut off in the far, far future. It did not bother her, of course. Why would it? She understood fate. She understood death. Everything begins, and everything ends. There was nothing more to understand.

And so she spun, and spun, and spun the strings of fate.


	2. Creation and Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Istus meets the goddess of nature. The gods shift fate.

Istus never actually spoke to Laolus, the goddess of creation. But she certainly witnessed her actions as, in the span of a mortal day, the high god created all of the Triplane. She decorated the newest material plane with oceans and deserts and beasts aplenty, some civilized, some not. And with new creatures, of course, came new gods.

Istus was lucky to avoid most of them for an entire century. But then there was the mortal war, and the wreckage that came with it, and her luck ran out.

One day out of many, the doors to Istus’ celestial temple slammed open and hearty vines crept in, consuming the entire front wall. Massive flowers bloomed, tree trunks formed; a jungle made itself known where once there had been simplicity. Istus wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amazed.

“You are Istus,” said a voice from a dozen creatures within the mass. “I am Beory, goddess of nature, and I was wondering if you could help me.”

Istus stared a moment longer, then returned to her work. “Probably not.”

“You know of the war going on in the material plane?”

“Of course. I know its beginning and its end.”

The vines crept closer. “And so you know the destruction it has wrought. The forests destroyed, the fields burned, the earth ravaged; this fighting causes nothing but death. They are destroying my domain.”

“That is simply the way of these mortals,” said Istus.

“I don’t want it to be the way. I want it to change.”

Istus paused. She looked back at Beory, at the growth. “If a god were to get involved, it would change the path of fate.”

There was a groaning sound as the growth reached out, straining against the temple’s ceiling. “I know that! But I can’t let them keep ruining my domain.”

“Why come to me if you are simply going to go against me?”

“Because I don’t _want_ to go against you, Istus. You are the oldest among us gods of the Triplane; you have to have some solution! Some way to strike a balance between disrupting fate and...shifting it.”

Istus wasn’t a god of the Triplane, just as she wasn’t a god of Strix’zilv, home of the dragons. But she abstained from pointing that out. “Shifting it?”

“I don’t know why fate is important, but you are here so it must be. But your purpose is to protect fate; what purpose is there for the rest of us if we cannot protect our domains?”

Istus thought. She looked at her work, looked to the strings of fate; they were the same as ever, unchanged over the centuries gone by. Nothing had risen to disturb them, not yet. She could barely comprehend what a sin against her domain would look like.

She turned back to Beory. “I may have an idea.”

\----

The very first paladin was named, ironically, Mercy. She was a fae, one of the four species fighting in their endless war; she fought as well, of course, but in the name of Beory. She destroyed any enemies who ruined nature’s domain, and pleaded with her people who did the same—and, if pleading did not work, she destroyed them as well. She was quite literally a force of nature.

Istus watched carefully the strings of fate as Beory and Mercy continued on. Things did shift—lives shortened, or lengthened, and sometimes whole battles would have their course altered—but fate went on.

It was only a couple decades after Mercy became a paladin that Beory once again came to see Istus. The goddess of nature did not come in a swath of vines or flora and fauna; she appeared almost identical to a mortal fae. She smiled as Istus turned to greet her. “I took on this form when I chose Mercy; did you know how terrified mortals could be of a simple monstrosity of nature? How fascinating.”

“I suppose,” said Istus.

“Tell me: how is fate?”

Istus turned back to her work. “A little different than it was yesterday, but still there.”

“Good! I’m glad our plan worked.” Beory paused. “Did you know how interesting mortals could be? I’ll be honest—I thought they were nothing but pests. But they’re truly much more... _alive_ than anything I’ve ever seen before.”

“I know everything about mortals.” Istus worked on. “I find them...short-lived.”

“Then you know nothing.” Beory came up beside Istus. She did not look at her—not that she could find her eyes, if she tried—but down at fate. “They are more than just...strings.”

Istus stopped. She reached a limb into the woven ties and pulled out one string, a glimmering green. She ran her edges along it, all the way until its end—until it cut off. “Mercy will die within the next century; she will be cut down serving in your name, in the lands of the Sarrukh people. She will die, and there will be nothing left of her.”

Beory frowned; she stepped away. “I will be what’s left of her,” she declared. “Her life will be within my memory; her deeds will be remembered for as long as I am alive. And besides; it is not her death that matters.” Beory’s shape began to dissipate; a flock of blue jays took her place, flying through Istus and out the open door. Her last words lingered behind, sticking to the very strings within Istus’ grasp. “It is everything she is before it.”

“Is it?” Istus asked, but there was no one there. So she returned to her knitting. She returned to her strings. She returned to fate.


	3. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Istus confronts the goddess of seas and storms on her fate-breaking actions. It does not end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while. But it's also around twice the length of the previous two chapters combined, so I think it worked out.

For the first time, Istus saw The End.

As usual, she was working; the sounds of a thousand needles clicked and clacked, echoing throughout the temple, feeding into one singular tapestry of fate. Istus clicked away, watching the tapestry move, watching the wave of mortal lives carry themselves out. She knew peace, then, watching the tapestry weave itself.

Istus knew peace, and then she looked to her tapestry and saw war.

What she had just knit together had been torn to pieces. Strings here and there were cut off, or unraveled, or strung in the wrong place. Istus saw the fall of every civilization, the end of every life, and the cut off of every being in existence—everything collapsed. Fate, it seemed, was destined to End.

Istus couldn’t believe it; she studied the tapestry. Surely, she had woven this all before—within the same mortal boundaries of time, but with different events. And there was an odd motif in every part of the End: the oceans overtook the land, storms overtook the skies, and together they drowned everything. Tempest reigned overall.

Istus paused. She dug deep into the tapestry, pulling out a handful of great, glowing, strings. She saw her own string among them—cut short, just like everything else—and Beory’s, and—

Zeboim. A goddess who had been around just as long as the Triplane, just as long as Beory. A goddess who had never attempted to meet Istus. A goddess of seas, storms, and tempest. Her string went on long after all else had been cut.

Istus dropped the strings, and stepped away from the tapestry. She faced the doors of her sanctuary. It was time to leave.

It was time to meet Zeboim.

\----

While she may limit her own interactions with other divine entities, Istus knew well that the gods—Ezerath and his golden form, Io and their haughty shadow, Beory and her consuming growth—valued one thing above all else: presentation. This is why, as she entered Zeboim’s domain in the infinite Celestial Plane—the tumultuous seas of an eternal ocean—Istus let her form stretch out as far as she could. She descended into the sea as every grain of salt and every drop of water was halted and transformed into a trillion threads of light, like a great silk quilt. Crashing waves turned to gentle hills; black clouds turned to fabric puffs. Her very presence set the sea in order, and so when Istus found Zeboim at the deepest depths of the ocean, the goddess of tempest was, understandably, seething.

“Istus,” hissed Zeboim from within the waters, “what a _pleasure._ Tell me: _why_ have you decided to _ruin_ my kingdom with your _ancient_ presence?

“What a strange mortal concept,” said Istus, a thousand times over, “is the one of something that is ancient. I never knew you had such a heart for mortal content.”

Zeboim hissed, and the waters around her hissed as well, spraying tears down around the goddess of fate; every drop to come near Istus joined the mass of thread. “I do _not_ care for a _single_ mortal. I would rather they all were _dead!_ ”

“Is that what you’re planning, then?”

The oceans stuttered; half-formed waves collapsed where they stood. Istus swore the entire sea stood still for a millisecond. “ _How do you know that?!”_

Istus stared into the depths. “I _am_ the goddess of fate. I know what is destined to happen—and I know when someone disrupts that destiny, as well.”

“ _I_ am disrupting _nothing,”_ hissed Zeboim, _“_ but the power of _useless beings!_ It is my _destiny_ to toss this _entire world_ into _chaos_ —to cause _everlasting tempest!”_

Gods, Istus had also learned, tended to be very dramatic.

“It is not your destiny to disrupt fate,” Istus said patiently. “I have seen your destiny: you are to watch over the seas for several millions of years, and then you will die.”

“ _Your_ destiny is not _my_ destiny!” said Zeboim. “I will _rule_ and I will _live forever!”_

Istus frowned incorporeally. “What part of the concept of fate do you not understand?”

 _“ENOUGH!”_ The silver wave that was Zeboim rose above Istus’ threads, looming like an oncoming bolt. “Your concepts of _fate_ and _destiny_ are _irrelevant;_ you are too _ancient_ for the modern times! _I_ will create a world _without fate_ ; without _you!”_ And, in one fell swoop, Zeboim crashed down onto the goddess of fate.

The contact startled Istus; she pulled her form back towards herself, and let go of her hold on the sea. Instantly, she was thrown back away from Zeboim’s home in the celestial ocean, pushed around the unrelenting currents; she looked every which way, extended as far as she could, searching for the surface, but found none. Finally, Istus gave in: she reached deep inside herself and with one, solid yank, summoned herself back into her own temple. Her sanctuary was battered and damaged; brine decorated the upper walls, the floor was covered in an inch of water, and the ever-eternal tapestry of fate lay sopping wet and still apocalyptic. Istus wrung herself dry of Zeboim’s oceans, looked about the temple, and let out one, long celestial sigh.

This was going to be difficult.

\----

This was how the first war amongst the gods was waged.

Istus went to Beory, and Beory went to the other gods of the Triplane; the goddess of nature rallied them against the might of Zeboim’s power. Istus then went to Strix’zilv and Io, but the great god of dragons abstained: “THIS IS A MATTER OF OTHER PLANES,” they claimed. “ZEBOIM HAS NO POWER HERE.” She did not ask more than once; she knew how stubborn the god could be.

Finally, Istus went to the mortals.

She chose her form carefully, taking on the physique of an Aearee. Physicality was unnerving; she spent far too long observing the sensation of feathers ruffling, scales shifting, and the ever-subtle movements of a mortal’s breath. After some practice, she emerged from her sanctuary once again, crossing into the mortal plane.

She went to the Aearee kingdom, and walked amongst its citizens; they paid her no mind, rushing between their constructs. She passed by slowly, taking in every detail: the sparks of a fire held in a child’s hands, the rush of wind as a passerby took to the sky, the tracks of footprints along the path ahead. The sounds, the smells, the sights; it was jarring, as opposed to Istus’ own static sanctuary, but not...unpleasant.

She wasn’t aware of all the details of mortality.

Eventually, Istus found herself at the entrance to a small cave, golden light filtering in. That light was reflected every which way by the piles of ornamental metals contained within the room: copper bowls, clay figurines, jewelry and other modest wealth. The smell of herbs and meat permeated the room; Istus followed it to a small shrine in the back.

There, she found the only current inhabitant of the cave: a small Aearee, hunched over a certain pile. He was arranging something on one of the copper plates; the source of the smell. Instead of eating it himself, however, he placed it half-hazardly on the pile, then pulled his wings together, bending his head forward. Istus froze in place as she finally took in the shrine: her own symbol, a weaver’s spindle, sat amongst the spoils.

“Dear Lady of Fate,” the Aearee said, suddenly and quietly, drawing Istus’ attention back to him. “My people call me a fool for still calling to you—but I know my path is in your hands. Please.” He curled into himself even more, beak disappearing among feathers, and Istus leaned forward, straining to hear him. “I don’t want to die. But if that is what must happen—if that is what you say will come to pass—please. Can you tell me? I just—I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

Istus reached out beyond her mortal form to this Aearee’s own. Slowly, she searched amongst the ties of his soul—and then she found the braiding of his own string of fate. She followed it backward, and found he was stricken with illness—then forward, to his death, just two nights in the future. She looked at him again, now, and found details she had not noticed before: the decaying grid of feathers along his wings; the shallowness of his breath. She looked at him and, from within her mortal form, felt an emotion she had never felt before; she could not name it. Istus did not dwell on it: she stepped forward, and rustled her wings, and the Aearee—Kadavu, she pulled to mind—stumbled to his feet. Kadavu stared at her, head tilted.

“Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I am whose hands your path lays in,” she announced, and saw the Aearee go still, “and I have a new destiny for you to fulfill.”

\----

And so, with a new cleric acting in her name, the war against Zeboim raged on.

The species of the world didn’t act together, per say, but they acted in tandem, putting their own eternal squabbling to the side to fight against the tempestuous goddess. Beory worked side-by-side on the battlefield with the god of war himself—Evertor, Istus recalled, though she had yet to meet him—every day inching closer to where the coastline once lied. With every push forward, however, Zeboim seemed to push twice as hard back. Every drop of ocean came alive, attacking mortals and divine alike: nobody could get close.

And, even with the war at a truce, tension cut through every troop. Istus spent every moment combing through fate, identifying moments to prevent, but would come to her cleric to find Kadavu embroiled in another debate. Once, she found him afloat in the sky, land out of view, looking akin to a storm cloud: “Batrachi are the most infuriating people there are,” he complained to her. “They listen to no call for reason: whenever I suggest an action, they do all in their power to do anything else. I don’t think they believe me when I say I speak to you.”

“Batrachi are no different from you,” Istus said in return.

“Have you seen them?” Kadavu swirled around the goddess, Istus in her own grandiose Aearee form. “They’re—slimy! They’re green! I swear I saw one eat a fly yesterday, just out of the air!”

“They’re mortal,” Istus countered, “and afraid. Just like you.” Kadavu had no answer. “Would you like to continue your lesson with me? This time I have yarn more accustomed to mortal hands. Perhaps it will help you calm down and think.”

“Knitting is not calming in the slightest,” Kadavu grumbled, but he went with her anyway: with the goddess’ hand in his own, the pair slipped between the edges of realities into Istus’ celestial temple. The water damage had disappeared, mostly, although the ongoing war still left its mark: the strings of fate remained in flux, ever-changing. Later, Istus would scour through them again, searching for differences: for now, she sat on the floor beside her cleric.

“Is my fate certain?” Kadavu asked. A pile of yarn, unwoven and woven again, sat in his lap; Istus could not remember how much time they had been there, as little as it mattered in the celestial plane. She thinks to his string of fate, ever-conscious in her mind: in flux, too, as all else, but spun far longer than the two days he had originally been allotted.

“No,” she responds finally. Warm fingertips thread through the fabric she has knit; magic runs through it, although it pales in the shadow of Fate itself. She wonders what it can do. “With the gods at war, nothing is certain. But I am certain of this: you can trust me to protect you.”

Kadavu nods, then. “I hope I can trust you more than your trust in my skills in knitting,” he says, and Istus smiles, and a light feeling rests in her that she knows to be peace.

\----

Two of Beory’s newest champions charge onto the beach alongside Kadavu, followed by their combined armies: fae, and aearee, and sarrukh and batrachi rush forward, a battle cry rising up with them. This will be the one and only time these species ever fight alongside each other, all four of them: in the future, Istus will wish she had appreciated that more. Now, though, her thoughts are elsewhere.

As the mortals tackle the living sea, the gods themselves take on Zeboim: a great, humanoid being, pulling the oceans like puppets on a string. Evertor hangs back, inviting rage into the armies’ minds: Beory shifts the earth beneath Zeboim’s own forces, evaporating the sea in great swathes of heat. Istus hangs above it all, manipulating Fate where she can: the slightest shifts in the water’s movements cause whole waves to crash in on themselves.

Still, the battle is locked in place: for every step the mortals take farther down the shore, the ocean’s might pushes them back. Beory comes to Istus, worn down: “This isn’t working!”

Evertor’s voice rings out across the waves. “The only option is Zeboim’s death.”

“We can’t kill Zeboim,” Istus says. She thinks of Bahamut, cut short. “This is not where her fate ends.”

“Then what do you say we do?”

The strings of Fate fade from view; Istus lets go of her aearee form. “I’m going to speak to Ezerath; he’ll know.” Before the others can protest, she slips into the astral plane.

The goddess doesn’t have to go far: before she can travel any farther, a hand pulls her upwards, miles above the battlefield below. She retakes a mortal appearance and faces Ezerath, glowing gold, similarly appearing as one of the flying folk. His eyes glitter.

“We need your help, Ezerath,” Istus begins: “Your lesser is out of control. Zeboim needs to be reigned in before Fate is damaged eternally.”

Ezerath hums. “I don’t know; this is fairly entertaining.”

“Entertaining?!” Istus sputters. “This world— _your_ world—is under threat of being torn string from string!”

Ezerath mutters something under his breath; Istus leans forward, straining to hear. Then he says: “I can always make a new one.”

“A new—a new world? What about this one? What about the fate this world is meant to have?”

Ezerath shrugs. “Inconsequential.”

Any rebuttal leaves Istus; she stares, shocked. The goddess feels her purpose, Fate, spinning out around her, unwinding, unweaving. The creator of this world will not protect it. He will not protect her.

Ezerath smiles, suddenly, as if noticing her shock. “Oh, don’t worry that much, Istus! I know you’ll sort it out soon enough. You fate gods are good at that, and when you’re not...well. You just won’t have to worry about anything for much longer. I think you should be much less concerned for this world and much more concerned for those you care for on it.”

“Care for…” Istus repeats. She pauses.

Kadavu.

The goddess dives from the skies, the supreme god’s cackling following her. She releases her mortal form as she falls; mortal eyes are drawn to her like those to a shooting star. She searches the battlefield, mentally sifting through threads, until she hears a loud _CRASH!_ —and an even louder _snap._

She knows Kadavu is dead before she spots him. She feels his life give out—feels his string slip from her grasp—and knows nothing more.

If peace is an emotion, then Istus feels war. She is the earth Beory is tearing apart; the cries of soldiers as they rush again to battle; the raging ocean. She lets the battlefield, the mortal plane, shift away—catching one last glimpse of Zeboim just before—and reappears in her temple.

The temple is shaking, earth quaking like it is the center of all destruction. Water, dark and murky, seeps in. Fate glows gently, as if calling for calm: Istus does not calm. She marches up to Fate and reaches in, snatching up that turquoise, turbulent, tempestuous string—

—and she hesitates, a moment, because _this is fate_ —

—and then yanks the string upwards and in one, smooth, motion, it _snaps._

And everything goes quiet.

Istus sees The End again as if she is there, watching: she sees the ocean calm. The mortal armies shout and cheer, joyous, until they’re cut off by a long, warbling groan: the sea itself, mourning its mistress. It retreats, and keeps retreating.

She sees the future: she sees the planet’s waters deserting itself. She sees the end of the mortal war and the beginning of another against the earth beneath their feet: futile. She sees everything dying. She sees everything dead.

Watching Fate fail before her causes Istus to stumble out of her rage: she reels back in horror, and then reels back in. She sifts through what has been—Zeboim’s cut-off future still in her grasp—and grabs a hold of the other end of the passed goddess’ fate. Hastily, she ties the two ends together, and begs that they hold. Then she lets go, and waits.

Fate pulls itself together. The oceans, still in the act of receding, return, calmed. The future that might have been fades from view: in its place comes something reminiscent of what was meant to be. Istus lets out a deep breath, turning away, and then freezes as someone appears in her temple.

Zeboim stands there, looking battered and torn, but existent: she pulls herself off of her knees, stumbling back. She locks eyes with Istus, and the goddess of fate, the silver mistress, is surprised to find genuine fear: then Zeboim is gone, leaving nothing but the smell of saltwater behind.

Istus does not move. There is no sound of needles, no working; still, the threads spin on like sifting sand. Her own breath, unnecessary, echoes in her ears. For an eternity, for a moment, Istus does not move, as fate goes on without her.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters because Writing Much.


End file.
